The Break-Up Book Club Page 9

  “. . . Diana Gabaldon. Don’t ever get between Phoebe and her Outlander.”

  “We’ve been members for a long time,” Phoebe says. “But recently we’ve started thinking that it might finally be time . . .”

  “. . . to give the book club a name.”

  They sit. No one seems sure whether to applaud or agree.

  “Hmmm . . .” Annell says. “I’ve never wanted to curtail what we read or who might enjoy it, but maybe it’s time to consider naming ourselves. I’ll put a box at the front for suggestions.”

  I’m not too worried about the group having a name, but I wouldn’t mind being able to communicate as clearly and effortlessly with Maya as Wesley and Phoebe do with each other. Or even with Thea, who will not let go of how much I need to meet Derrick Warren. And marry him. And have his babies.

  Carlotta stands and introduces herself with a twirl that shows off a circle skirt in a bold geometric pattern that is one of her most recent designs. “I have loved too many books to have one favorite. But I did especially appreciate Middlesex and Trans-Sister Radio. Oh, and The Martian.” She shrugs. “Variety is the spice of life.”

  Meena is up next. “I’m Meena. I’m recently single and am currently experimenting with online dating. I found a great photographer if anyone ever wants to do new profile pictures. My favorite book at the moment is 121 First Dates, which sounded kind of daunting at first but is actually a really great ‘how-to’ manual. I will be happy to share my newly gleaned information with anyone who’s interested.”

  Judith sways slightly as she stands. “I’m Judith. I still live in the suburbs even though my nest is empty. My daughter is getting married over Labor Day weekend. And my favorite book is The Red Tent even though it doesn’t contain dating advice.” She looks at Meena. “Yes. Still.”

  The young man who stands next appears to be in his late thirties. “I’m Chaz. I’m an EMT, and this is my first time here.” He smiles, seeming completely unbothered that he and Wesley are the only males present. “Is that Red Tent book tied to Red Sonja in any way?” he asks. “I heard there’s a remake of the film finally happening.”

  “Um. No. Not really,” Judith says.

  Meena snorts.

  As I look around our circle, I’m glad that we have always been a mix of ages, occupations, genders, and ethnicities. And that newcomers are welcome. It’s part of what attracted me to the group in the first place.

  When it’s my turn, I stay seated and say only that I’m a sports agent with StarSports Advisors. Ever since a former book club member tried to convince me to look at her ten-year-old daughter who’d pitched a no-hitter in her church softball league, I try to downplay what I do.

  Angela stands and smiles her always-sunny smile. “I’m Angela and I’m an accountant.” She laughs lightly. “Okay, that sounded a little more like an AA intro than I intended. I’m not actually trying to quit being a CPA. In fact, my husband, Perley, and I own our own firm. We have three daughters.” She pauses and gets that happy smile that accompanies any reference to Lyllie, Mollie, and Kerina. “Even after all these years and books, my favorite is Little Women. Pride and Prejudice is a close second.” She pauses. “And though she failed to mention it, Jazmine’s is Becoming by Michelle Obama. I think we should consider reading it.”

  There are nods and murmurs.

  The dark-haired woman sitting across from Angela jumps to her feet, sending a pair of golf ball earrings swinging. Despite the cold January temperatures and the fact that it’s dark outside, she’s wearing a golf visor with the Masters logo on it. “I’m Nancy Flaherty and I just moved to Atlanta. I’m originally from Charleston, but more recently from Florida. I’m a receptionist at a real estate firm here in Sandy Springs. My favorite book of all time is The Greatest Game Ever Played. Ditto for the movie. I’m a 16 handicap, and I spend as much time as possible on the golf course.” She hesitates and turns to me, her smile freezing on her lips. “Do you know Tiger Woods personally?”

  “Sorry. No.” I shake my head. “I don’t handle golfers.”

  The smile unfreezes. There’s a small sigh of what might be relief. “Well, I do. Very personally.” She winks, then takes her seat with a brisk nod and swing of her golf balls.

  As the last introductions take place, Judith picks up a bottle of red wine and one of white and walks around the circle topping off glasses. Back at her seat, she tops hers off, then sets the bottles within reach.

  “So,” Annell says with a smile. “What did we think of the book?”

  “I liked it,” Angela answers quickly. “But it was hard to read about how vulnerable the narrator was. As a mother, I couldn’t understand how her parents could have left their children uninoculated and uneducated.”

  “I could hardly read the parts when she had to do all those horribly dangerous jobs because her father made her.” Carlotta shudders.

  “Those kids got maimed. And the mother, too,” Chaz the EMT says. “It’s hard to imagine refusing to see a doctor or go to a hospital.”

  “Remember when she sees the term ‘bipolar’ for the first time and realizes that’s what her father was?” Phoebe asks.

  With that we are off and running. Whenever discussion slows, Annell raises another point or question. It’s a very different thing to have someone directing the conversation and keeping it flowing. It’s another reason I enjoy the group so much.

  Judith makes the rounds again with the wine. “Are you sure you’re done?” she asks when I cover my glass. Her eyes look a little unfocused. Her smile’s reached the Cheshire Cat stage.

  “Afraid so. I’ve got to drive home.”

  “Too bad. That’s why I B-BUbered . . .” She laughs. “I mean, Ubered. Because I kind of need the alcohol tonight.”

  I’m not sure what to say to this. “Is everything all right, Judith?” I ask quietly.

  “No, not really. But it will be.”

  Eleven

  Judith

  I zip my coat all the way up as Meena and I walk out to the parking lot, calling out our goodbyes, in plumy breaths. It takes a few tries to open the Uber app on my phone and set home as my destination. I’m fairly certain it’s because my hands are frozen and not because I had too much to drink. Or it could be the small print.

  “Forget Uber,” Meena says. “It’s freezing out here. I’ll run you home.”

  “Don’t be silly. You live in the opposite direction.”

  “I think I can go a little out of my way for a friend. And you won’t even have to plug in an address.”

  “No, I really don’t think . . .”

  “Stop arguing and come on.” She links her elbow with mine and leads me toward her car.

  “All right. But you really don’t have to do this.”

  “I know.”

  In the car, I fumble with the seat belt until she reaches across me and clicks it together.

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?” I blow on my hands while the heater blasts on and begins to defrost the windshield.

  “I know you. You didn’t drive. You drank like you were screwing up your courage for something.” Meena starts the car and backs out of the parking space.

  I stare straight ahead as we drive the two-lane street that leads to Johnson Ferry Road, which will wind into East Cobb, where River Forge is.

  “Fine,” I say finally. “I had an appointment with your divorce attorney yesterday. Thanks for getting me in, by the way. I had no idea that the busiest time of year for divorce filings was immediately after the holidays.”

  “There are lots of suicides right after the holidays, too,” Meena says quietly. “Clearly, it’s not always the holly, jolly time it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did it go?” Streetlights illuminate Meena’s face, then cast it back into shadow.

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nbsp; “I liked her. She laid everything out, what would happen, the retainer, gathering financial information. How she’d position me.”

  The scenery flies by. The suburbs are quiet at ten p.m. on a Tuesday night. Some stores and restaurants are still open, but the parking lots are mostly empty. There are very few cars on the road.

  “What made you decide to see her?” Meena asks.

  “Nate didn’t invite me to Europe. And then he butt-dialed me from Italy, and I was forced to hear him tell a total stranger that our spark died a long time ago and that he’s just ‘going through the motions.’ And FYI—none of those motions include sex. I almost wish he’d been screwing around.”

  “No, you don’t,” Meena says.

  “You’re right. Sorry. It’s just . . . the kids aren’t really kids anymore, but I don’t think either of them is ready for their family to cease to exist. And . . . I mean it all feels so . . . final.”

  “It is.” Tonight, Meena is my confessor and advisor.

  “Have your kids forgiven you?” I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.

  “More or less. I think they’ve come to understand that the divorce has made things better. At least for me. Now I have my own relationship with them, and I have to remind myself I’m not responsible for making sure they have a relationship with Stan. I’m not his spokesperson. Or his promoter.

  “I’m polite when we’re all together, but Stan likes to pretend that everything was fine and I just got bored.” She shrugs. “I’m happier than I was in a marriage that wasn’t working, but nothing’s perfect. Sometimes I feel lonely. I even miss Stan now and then. But I know I did the right thing. For me.”

  We turn onto Upper Roswell as she continues. “The way I see it you have three choices: Suck it up, stay married, and make the best of the situation. You can spend more time with friends, take trips he’s not interested in on your own, live as separate a life as you need to without actually leaving.

  “Or you work on your marriage and try to make it better. Of course, that takes cooperation on both sides.” Meena’s gaze lands on my face. “Maybe if Nate knew he was going to lose you, he’d try harder. Stan didn’t, but Nate could be different.”

  She stops for a last red light. “Or you file for divorce and commit yourself to creating the life you want.”

  “I’m fifty-five years old.” At the moment it sounds like one hundred.

  “I know,” Meena replies. “Fortunately, there’s no age limit on happiness. You could live another forty years, Jude. Are you willing to settle for four more decades?”

  My mind swims with visions of what forty years of settling might feel like. What it would do to me. Could I even survive it?

  We turn into River Forge, driving past the clubhouse and pool and the perfectly flat street where Ansley and Ethan learned to ride their bikes.

  As we drive down the neighborhood’s main street, our former lives are everywhere. Meena’s mouth tightens when we enter the cul-de-sac we shared and cruise past her former house, on our way to mine. The Parkers’ house was always part of the view from our master bedroom. Any trip to the mailbox included a quick glance to see whether Meena’s Volvo was parked in their garage. When the kids were still in school, no one ever closed their garage door until the entire family was in for the night. Nowadays, I pull in and close the garage door behind me as soon as the car is off.

  “God, it seems like a lifetime ago that we moved into the neighborhood,” Meena muses. “I remember you coming over with homemade brownies the day we moved in.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. There are new versions of us moving in every day.” I look at my old friend. “I wish Nate had been open to moving. Maybe we would have had a better chance at adapting somewhere new.”

  She’s kind enough not to remind me that a new home didn’t save her marriage. When we reach my house, she pulls into the driveway and stops, leaving her engine running. “So. What now?”

  “Well, this afternoon I shaved body parts I didn’t even know I still had. I’m going to go inside, put on my sexiest negligee, which would be my only remaining negligee, and seduce my husband.” I don’t add that one of my biggest fears is whether I’m still desirable enough to pull this off. “I think that falls under your marital option number two. I’m hoping that it will remind us both who we are and what we once had.”

  “And then?”

  “Then, once he’s completely relaxed, I’m going to explain that I’m tired of being taken for granted and that things have to change if we’re going to stay married. I don’t actually know what he’ll choose, but either way, things are going to change.”

  Meena reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Good luck. Let me know how it goes.”

  The front porch is brightly lit because the lights are on timers. Inside it’s pitch-dark and quiet. I flip on lights, pushing back my irritation that my husband hasn’t even left a single light on, because that would require a moment of thought about someone other than himself. In the kitchen, I pour a final glass of courage, which I carry upstairs.

  Nate’s already in bed. He’s on his back, his arms flung wide. His snores are loud and ragged. This, of course, is not exactly a turn-on. But I am a woman on a mission.

  In the bathroom, I remove my clothes and slip the neatly pressed negligee over my head. If I squint and angle my body just right, I do not look too old for sex. At least not in this light.

  The expensive “date night” perfume is buried in the back of my medicine cabinet covered in dust. I spritz it in strategic spots, then slather on moisturizer that my skin sucks in like a desperate woman downing a last cocktail at closing time.

  I don’t let myself think about how long it’s been—it’s like riding a bike, right? I especially don’t think about exactly what I’ll say afterward or how things might turn out. I want the sex to be good. Proof that we can still “connect,” that the spark can still be ignited.

  In the bedroom, I walk to where Nate is sprawled and snoring and pull back the covers. His chest is bare, the hair that covers it more white now than dark. His pajama bottoms are bunched below his stomach; his legs are windmilled. The pajama placket gapes open.

  I wait for him to wake and look up, but his eyes remain shut. The snoring continues.

  “Nate?” My voice is low and husky. “Na-aaa-te?” I coo as provocatively as I can.

  The only thing moving is his chest. Air whistles through his lips as he snores.

  This is not the response I was hoping for. But I do not retreat. I crouch between his legs and contemplate what lies before me. His penis flops out of the placket and curls wormlike against his thigh.

  I remember an ancient joke that asks, What do you get if you have a large green ball in one hand and another large green ball in the other? Complete control of the Jolly Green Giant.

  With a small smile, I take him in my palm. His eyes remain closed, but the body part I’m holding thickens.

  “Nate?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “What would you like to see happen here?”

  His eyes open. There’s a weariness in them I’m not used to, but his lips quirk upward.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been dragging something awful all day. I feel like I might be fighting off the flu. But at the moment I’m tempted to just leave myself in your hands.”

  “Very funny,” I say.

  His eyes flutter shut mid-smirk. I consider my options. I could give up on pleasuring either of us and table the conversation until tomorrow. But I know this man almost as well as I know myself. He’s a lot more likely to be receptive to what I have to say once he’s lolling in postcoital satisfaction.

  “Hang on, then. I’ve got this.” With a smirk of my own, I hike up the negligee and position myself above him, rubbing up and down until I’m wet and he’s hard. Slowly, I lower myself onto his erection. He groans, his head rolling from s
ide to side, as I settle myself. His hands cup my buttocks when I begin to ride. They drop away as I find my rhythm, raising and lowering myself, seeking out the friction, reveling, forgetting everything including my mission as the delicious tension builds. My eyes close. My head falls back. I let myself remember the first time we made love, the look in his eyes when he asked me to marry him, the day we brought Ansley home from the hospital. Then I lose myself in the motion, in riding him, feeling the tension mount to that exquisite breaking point just beyond the edge of reason.

  His body goes rigid. He spasms, bucks. His wordless shout spurs me on as he erupts, catapulting me over the edge, into the stratosphere. Into free fall. Until I collapse on top of him, both of us slick with sweat. His heartbeat beneath my ear is a runaway freight train.

  “Wow.” We’re both trying to catch our breath as I drag myself off him. Nate’s still gasping on the bed when I throw the covers up over him and stagger to the bathroom, where I pull on a robe, wash my face, and brush my teeth. It takes some time to calm down and remember what I wanted to say.

  When I get back to the bedroom, Nate’s still lying flat on his back but is no longer gasping for breath. He appears to be staring up at the ceiling. Since he’s not snoring, I assume he’s awake.

  “Nate?”

  I climb into bed, my back against the headboard. I still feel warm and tingly from the orgasm and hope Nate does, too. In truth, I’d rather go to sleep—maybe even curled up in his arms—than talk, but I’m not sure I can sleep without getting everything off my chest.

  “Nate? Are you listening?”

  He doesn’t answer, but his head lolls in my direction.

  “Fine. Just listen, then. There are things I need to say.” I draw a breath. “First of all, you butt-dialed me from Italy. Do you have any idea what it feels like to hear your husband tell a total stranger that he’s ‘only going through the motions’?”

  Again, no response. But I can see the edge of his eyelashes, so I assume his eyes are open.